


Broken - A Camp Camp Fanfiction

by Nobodyx



Category: Camp Camp
Genre: Addiction, Camp, Camp Camp - Freeform, Crystal Wash TM, Cutting, Depressing, Fucked Up, Kinda really sad, Knives, Other, Slits, knife, trigger warning, voices
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-21
Updated: 2018-07-21
Packaged: 2019-06-14 00:24:58
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,032
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15376680
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nobodyx/pseuds/Nobodyx
Summary: He knows it's wrong.He knows he should stop.But... the blood seeping out of him is like the voices possessing his brain.When it leaves, the voices leave.He knew it was wrong.knew he should have stopped.He really, really, should have.





	Broken - A Camp Camp Fanfiction

It was the hottest day of the year for Camp Campbell campers. And when we say hot, we mean blistering-even-Nikki-would-stay-indoors kind of heat. Max didn't really mind the heat most of the times. Sure, he always wore that obnoxiously warm sweatshirt that made him sweat buckets on some of the worse days back 'home', but Camp Campbell, in fact, wasn't his 'home' (at least not literally), and had its own insufferable climate, which consisted of just right, warm, humid, oven, to, the worst, burning in fucking hell. 

And this was one of those days. 

Max groaned, taking another chug from his lukewarm water bottle. 

"Why the hell are we out in this fucking heat, David?!" He wiped sweat from his forehead with the back of his arm before looking at the state of the other campers. Erid took off her jacket and was wearing jean shorts and a yellow t-shirt. Space kid was off to the side with his 'space helmet' (which, in all honesty, Max thought it was just an over glorified fishbowl) off and underneath one of his arms, and with Gwen next to him periodically reminding him to breathe every few minutes. Man, he looked different without that shit on. Preston had his normal attire on, obviously sweating buckets but with a look on his face that said 'I am not looking like a peasant just because of some heat!' or something fucking stupid like that. Everyone (but himself, he continued to remind himself in his silent suffering) who was previously wearing a jacket had stripped it off of themselves in heat-induced stupor. 

He gritted his teeth, taking yet another chug from his warming bottle of water. 

"Well, campers. I thought i'd announce that today we won't be doing any of the activities, due to the heat. But! You can hang out in the mess hall with us, or go to the lake to take a dip!" David said in the sickeningly genuinely sweet tone he always used. 

"Then why the fuck did we meet out here and not in the mess hall at breakfast?!" Max asked angrily, emptying the last drop of water into his mouth and throwing the plastic bottle behind him. It's not his problem. 

"Well, I was going to surprise you with this later, but our dear Quartermaster is making ice cream back in the mess hall, and I didn't want you campers finding out about it halfway through!" Gwen nodded and shifted her hands to cross over her chest, her purple eyes doing an unconscious sweep over the campers. 

"He should be about finished now, though, so we can go back." David clasped his hands together enthusiastically. 

"Right! Let's head back now, while it's still cold!" A murmur or agreement spread across the campers as they shuffled their feet behind the counselors towards the cold treat in the mess hall. Neil, taking up the almost-rear of the group, noticed one camper lagging behind the others.

"Max? You coming?" He asked, looking back at the grumpy camper behind him. 

"Nah, you go on ahead. I'ma be at the lake. Don't bother me." Max waved his hand reassuringly. Neil eyed him suspiciously. 

"You sure?" 

"Yeah. Now, get the fuck outta my face." Max said. Neil gave him one last wary glance before turning around and walking towards the mess hall to catch up with the rest of the group. 

 

~~ 

 

Max stripped the now wet with sweat sweatshirt off of his arms and let out an involuntary gasp of air when he felt it peel off his skin. It felt nice to finally take that off for once, and on such a hot day too. Heh, he guess he knows why it's called sweat-shirt now. He let it drop to the side of him, his blueish-green eyes lingering over it before shifting to the water in front of him, the sun's rays glistening off of the water's rolling surface. Max yawned and stretched his arms above him, his joints giving a soft 'pop', before undressing himself of his ugly mustard yellow shirt as well. 

He sighed and plopped down on the bank of the lake, enjoying the view with an almost-smile on his face. He wanted to give a real smile, sure, but he couldn't. Max unconsciously ran his fingers over the slits on his wrist. Each one a part of something bigger, one big picture, each one a vivid memory painting an artwork of ever-changing colors in his head. The first one he... gained wasn't as poetic as most people think it would be. just a curious Max with a razor, unknowingly starting a chain reaction of blood loss by one simple unconventional urge. 

The second followed not long after. 

Then the third. 

Then the fourth. 

Then the fifth. 

Then the sixth. 

His arms were a canvas, and he, the artist. His arms were a black and white world, just waiting to be painted and drew upon like a doll maker crafting a new porcelain face. His arm, the doll, and him, his mind, the crafter. He knows it's wrong. He knows he should stop. 

But... the blood seeping out of him is like the voices possessing his brain. 

When it leaves, the voices leave. 

He knew it was wrong. 

He knew he should have stopped. 

He really, really, should have.

"It's too late for you." the voices would say. "You didn't try hard enough." 

So he didn't stop at six. 

Once his arms were too full, he moved to his thighs. His body was like a broken record on a vinyl, each time it tries to play its tune it scratches the cd but keeps playing it's sad tune. He was littered with scars that would never heal, and tears that would never dry. 

Oh, the tears. He could fill skies with his tears, each one raining down upon him and him alone, a grey little cloud always hovering above his head, raining upon his broken body. He really, really should have stopped after that first one. Maybe he wouldn't be how he is today. 

Shattered. 

That's what he was.

Just a fragment of his former self.

I guess you could say he was broken.

**Author's Note:**

> Lmao I originally made this for a different fanfiction site so.... Uhm..... thanks for reading I guess. Don't forget to leave kudos! Only if you liked it tho.... :D


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